Frostborn: The False King (6 page)

The Magistri could draw upon the power of the Well, as could the Keeper, but the Keeper had access to other spells, elemental magic forbidden to other men and women of Andomhaim. She drew upon that power, casting a spell of earth magic and feeding it through the mantle of the Keeper. The power burst forth from her, and a ripple went through the hard-packed ground. It swerved around the loyalists, but the ground beneath the Carhaine men-at-arms rippled and buckled. The spell knocked them from their feet and for a moment, Calliande remembered Morigna, imagined the acerbic comment the black-eyed sorceress would have made at the sight. 

The thought saddened Calliande, hardening her resolve, and she urged her horse forward as the line of Carhaine men-at-arms collapsed, retreating back towards the nearest keep.

###

Gavin stepped back, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his face as he raised Truthseeker and his shield, seeking another foe.

There were none left, though the sounds of battle filled his ears.

The gatehouse had become a charnel house, the air heavy with the scent of spilled blood, the floor carpeted with the corpses of slain men-at-arms. Fortunately, only a few of them wore red armbands. Gavin lowered his sword and shield, his arms and shoulders aching from the strain of battle. 

“It seems the enemy has run out of men to throw at us,” said Constantine. “Kadius.”

The decurion crossed the room and peered through one of the narrow windows at the courtyard below. “The Swordbearers and the Rhaluuskans have passed the gate, Sir Constantine. The foe is withdrawing in disarray to the keep.” 

“None come from the west,” said Antenora, still maintaining her wall of fire across that door. 

Gavin looked out the eastern door. Save for corpses, he saw no one.

“More of our men come through the gate,” said Kadius, and even the veteran decurion sounded excited. “The foe retreats. Sir knight, Castra Carhaine is about to fall.”

“Then let us help ensure that it does,” said Constantine. “Any man too wounded to fight should remain upon the ramparts until the Swordbearers or the Magistri can heal them. Everyone still fit to fight, follow me. Our steel shall be needed, and I have no doubt Prince Arandar can make use of your powers, Lady Antenora.”

“I obey,” said Antenora, dismissing her wall of fire and moving to Gavin’s side. 

“That was useful, that wall,” said Gavin. “Else the enemy would have encircled us.”

Again that almost-smile came over her face, and she looked away.

Gavin followed Constantine and Kadius as the men-at-arms filed from the gatehouse. He paused long enough to use Truthseeker’s magic to give healing to some of the severely wounded men. A Swordbearer could not use healing magic as effectively as a true Magistrius or a Magistria, but Gavin did what he could. He tarried as long as he dared, Antenora waiting next to him, and then followed the other men onto the ramparts.

Only to find that the battle was already over.

Hundreds of men-at-arms and knights marched through the gate, pouring into Castra Carhaine like water through the breach in a dam. Already Gavin saw crossbowmen in the colors of the Arbanii and the Durii hurrying along the ramparts, securing the siege engines and turning them to face the inner keeps. He looked for any remaining Carhaine men-at-arms. Surely they could not have all been killed?

“They’ve fallen back to the keep,” said Constantine, pointing with Brightherald. A mob of Carhaine men-at-arms had withdrawn to the steps of the nearest of the three keeps, standing before the doors.

“They’ll dig in there, sir knight,” said Kadius. 

“No matter,” said Constantine. “Surely the Constable must see that his position is hopeless. If not, we’ll burn them out.” He shrugged. “Taking Castra Carhaine with two of three keeps intact is good enough for one night’s work.” He turned back to Kadius. “We’ll join the others, and prepare to storm the…”

“Hear me!” 

The voice of Calliande, Keeper of Andomhaim, rang over the courtyard like a thunderclap.

Gavin and the others hurried down the stairs, joining the other Swordbearers and the Rhaluuskan orcs as they formed up to face the mob of Carhaine soldiers. Gavin saw the fear on the faces of the enemy, the determination to fight to the bitter end. He wondered how many of them were Enlightened, how many of them had sold their souls to the shadow of Incariel, and how many of them were here simply because they had no choice.

“Claudius Agrell, Constable of Castra Carhaine, hear me!” said Calliande, the spell throwing her voice over the courtyard.

Gavin spotted Calliande atop her horse, flanked by Master Marhand and Crowlacht. Sometimes Gavin thought that Calliande was two people in the same body. There was Calliande, the kind, gentle healer who often smiled. Then there was the Keeper of Andomhaim, stern and implacable and terrible. Ever since Dun Calpurnia and the murder of Uthanaric Pendragon, Gavin had seen less of Calliande and more of the Keeper.

She brought her horse to a halt, her green cloak stirring in the wind. She wore the same clothes she usually did, a leather jerkin and trousers and dusty boots, though of late at the insistence of the Prince and the Duxi she had started wearing a chain hauberk beneath the jerkin. Calliande was a beautiful woman, with long blond hair and clear blue eyes in a strong face, and right now that beauty somehow made her seem sterner as the staff of the Keeper flickered with white fire in her right hand. 

A knight wearing a surcoat with Carhaine colors stepped from the crowd of men-at-arms. He was a young knight, no more than thirty, with long black hair and a trimmed mustache. Something in his sneering arrogance reminded Gavin of Paul Tallmane and Caradog Lordac, two other knights in Tarrabus Carhaine’s service…and both men had been Enlightened. 

“You have words for me, woman?” shouted the knight. “Then speak them!”

“There is no further need for bloodshed, Sir Claudius,” said Calliande. “The castra has fallen. Tell your men to lay down their arms and they can be spared.” 

“And who are you to treat with me?” demanded Claudius. 

“I am the Keeper of Andomhaim,” said Calliande, “representing the Prince Regent and the lawful heir to the Pendragon Crown, Excalibur, and the High Kingship of Andomhaim. If that is not enough for you, your gates are broken, and our army has taken your castra.”

“Tarrabus Carhaine is the true High King of Andomhaim!” said Claudius. “And you have no authority, woman. You are simply a witch with a few tricks, and you shall see the power of the Enlightened for yourself!”

“Then show me,” said Calliande, her voice as cold as the Frostborn.

Claudius stepped forward, shadows erupting from his skin as he called upon the shadow of Incariel. As he did, he changed as the man-at-arms Gavin had fought had changed, only this time the transformation was complete. Sir Claudius became a hulking, gray-scaled monster, fangs jutting from his lips, claws bursting from his fingers, and he charged with inhuman speed, raising a greatsword in his right hand.

Calliande was faster.

White fire lanced from her staff and struck Claudius, and the Enlightened knight fell back with a shocked scream. Perhaps Tarrabus had told him the shadow of Incariel could overcome the Keeper, and perhaps Claudius had been foolish enough to believe it, but Calliande proved it wrong now. The white fire ripped into him, burning into his flesh, and Claudius fell to his knees.

He got to his feet, but not before Marhand and a half-dozen other Swordbearers surrounded him and made an end of it.

Marhand stepped over Claudius’s twisted corpse, lifting his soulblade. 

“Well?” he said.

The remaining Carhaine men-at-arms threw down their weapons and surrendered.

Castra Carhaine was theirs.

###

“There are not that many wounded, my lady Keeper,” said old Kurastus. The Master of the Magistri looked the part of the common image of the Magistri, old and gray-bearded and scholarly. Fortunately, he lacked the arrogance that infected so many of the Magistri, which was likely why he had not been corrupted by the Enlightened. “We can tend to them. You have earned some rest.”

“Have I?” said Calliande. 

Kurastus blinked at her.

“Thank you,” said Calliande. In truth, she did want to sleep. There was so much work to be done. With Castra Carhaine taken and Caerdracon in the hands of the loyalists, Prince Arandar would have to decide upon his next move, plan the campaign to take the war to Tarrabus and lift the siege of Tarlion. Or maybe it would be better to go to the aid of the Anathgrimm, to send them help before the Frostborn overran the Northerland and invaded Caerdracon…

She shook her head. The dark thoughts chased each other around her head, but she could do nothing about them now. Right now, she needed to sleep.

“Send some Magistri to search the castra,” said Calliande. “Likely there is a hidden temple of the Enlightened here. We should root it out.”

“It shall be done,” said Kurastus.

Calliande left the tent of the wounded. Gavin and Antenora awaited her outside, Gavin shading his eyes as he watched the sun rise over the River Moradel to the east. It struck her how much older he seemed, how much steadier. Someday, she thought, he would be remembered as Swordbearer of legend.

If they won the war. 

“You should get some rest,” said Calliande. 

Gavin yawned. “Probably.”

“I’m serious,” said Calliande as she headed towards her own tent. “This is as safe as we are likely to be for some time.”

“I shall remain on guard, Keeper,” rasped Antenora. 

“Thank you,” said Calliande. She stopped in front of her tent. “Thank you both. We could not have taken Castra Carhaine without your help.”

Gavin shrugged. “It was your plan. Just like at the Iron Tower.” He laughed a little. “Though I think this went better than the Iron Tower. There wasn’t the spirit of a half-mad dark elven lord to possess Sir Claudius.” 

“Indeed,” said Calliande. “Prince Arandar has called for a council of war tomorrow in the great hall of Castra Carhaine. We will need to be there.”

“I shall,” said Gavin. He nodded. “Good night. Or good morning by now, I suppose.”

Gavin walked towards his own tent a short distance away, and Calliande watched him go. For all his bravery, Gavin was still a young man. Calliande was older than he was, far older if she counted the time spent in sleep below the Tower of Vigilance, and Antenora was older by far. Yet Antenora seemed…younger, somehow, when she was with Gavin. 

“I have seen many wars, Keeper,” said Antenora. 

“I know,” said Calliande. 

“I do not believe we can win this one,” said Antenora.

“Why not?” said Calliande.

“The Frostborn need only wait,” said Antenora. “The Anathgrimm will delay them, but they can bring more and more strength through their world gate while our forces bleed themselves. Even if we are successful and place Prince Arandar upon the throne, Andomhaim will have been weakened. The Frostborn could sweep us aside, or they could break through the Anathgrimm and destroy us first.”

Calliande said nothing for a moment.

“You are right,” said Calliande. 

“Forgive me if I have spoken too harshly,” said Antenora. 

“No,” said Calliande. “It is nothing I have not said to myself a thousand times.” She sighed. “We will not win this war.”

They stood in silence for a while.

“Not without help,” said Calliande at last.

“Help?” said Antenora. “You know of allies?”

“I do,” said Calliande. “I thought they would have aided us by now, but…come with me to the council tomorrow. You shall learn more. Perhaps it is time to take a gamble.” She yawned. “And you are right. I must rest.”

“I shall stand guard,” said Antenora.

“Thank you,” said Calliande, and she slipped into the tent. It held only a bedroll and a chest for her clothes, and Calliande pulled off her cloak, jerkin, chain mail hauberk, and belt, collapsing onto her blanket with a sigh. She was utterly exhausted, and sleep beckoned, but there was one more thing she had to do first.

Something she did every night before she slept. It had become a ritual, a source of comfort in a world that offered little of it.

She grasped the handle of the dagger sheathed at her belt, closed her eyes, and cast a spell. 

And as she had every night for the last year, she felt a faint tugging from the weapon, a thread that connected the blade to the man who had given it to her a year and a half past. 

Ridmark Arban was still alive. Calliande said a brief prayer of thanks.

She missed him so much that it felt like a blade in her flesh. 

Calliande lay against her bedroll and closed her eyes. She might never see Ridmark again. 

But it comforted her to know that he was still alive. 

Chapter 3: Councils of War

“You shall have to prepare yourself for what is coming,” said Morigna, “and I do not think you are ready, not yet.”

Calliande turned, blinking in surprise. 

She stood on the rocky shore of a vast lake, its surface rippling in a cool wind, a wall of white mist rising from the waters. Calliande was certain, utterly certain, that she had stood upon this shore before, but she could not remember when.

For the moment, the dead woman standing next to her commanded all her attention.

Morigna looked just as she had on the day she had died, lean and fit and pale with long black hair and black eyes like polished stone. She wore leather and wool, her tattered cloak of green and brown strips hanging from her shoulders, her sigil-carved staff in her right hand.

“You’re dead,” said Calliande. 

“Yes,” said Morigna. “As ever, your powers of observation astound me. Truly, one suspects the legend of the Keeper is by no means overstated.” 

A familiar irritation went through Calliande. She missed Morigna, but by God, that woman had possessed a sharp tongue. 

“Then this is a dream,” said Calliande. 

“Well, yes, obviously,” said Morigna. “Has recovering your powers rendered you unable to state anything except the obvious?”